


from your past; a promise

by ataxophilia



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Minor Character Death, Musketeer Ladies Fanworks Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:52:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3228221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataxophilia/pseuds/ataxophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her husband-to-be is going to be the King of France, one of the most powerful men in the entire world, her father tells her. He is five days younger than her. She’ll live in Paris, which, her father assures her, is the kind of city the stories her mother used to tell her took place in.</p><p>From Ana María, Infanta, to Anne of Austria, Queen Consort of France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from your past; a promise

**Author's Note:**

> For the Musketeer Ladies Fanworks Challenge.
> 
> This was originally going to be a very different story, but Anne's past dug its claws into my heart and I had to write it. My research was conducted solely on Wikipedia; I am not claiming any kind of historical accuracy here.
> 
> Warnings for parental death (through childbirth) and the death of a child (from natural causes), both off-screen.
> 
> Un-beta'd. Let me know if there are any glaring mistakes.

Margaret of Austria, queen consort of Spain and Portugal, is thirty four weeks pregnant when she calls her eldest daughter into her bedchambers and presses a firm kiss to her forehead.

“My Ana,” she breathes, warm hands cradling her daughter’s cheeks. “My beautiful, darling Ana María.”

Ana, mere days away from her tenth birthday, looks up at her mother and frowns as she catches sight of the tears gathering in Margaret’s eyes. “Maman?” Her voice quivers, ever so slightly, around the word. “Why are you crying?”

What can she say to that? Ana is still a child, despite the gravity Margaret sometimes sees in her eyes as she watches her younger siblings. There aren’t words to explain to a nine year old the way her unborn child feels heavier than the seven who have come before him, like he might pull something vital out of her as she gives birth to him. Margaret has faith in the court doctors, and in the old midwife who has helped her through all her other pregnancies, but more so she has faith in herself, in the language of her body. Ana is too young to understand and for that, at least, Margaret is grateful.

So, instead of answering, she kisses Ana’s forehead again. “You are my greatest treasure, little Ana,” she says, pulling back. Ana’s eyes are wide and solemn even as her mouth twists in confusion. Margaret smiles, blinking back more tears as she pushes a loose strand of golden hair behind Ana’s ear. Ana has Margaret’s hair, as Margaret has her own mother’s hair, and Margaret hopes, desperately, that it will be a comfort for Ana, when she is gone. “Mine and your Papa’s. We both love you so very much.”

“I know.” Ana says the words seriously, like she knows that this is more important than she can understand yet, and then her eyes flicker down. “Is this about the new baby?”

Margaret laughs softly, running her hand gently over Ana’s head until it’s resting at the nape of Ana’s neck. “In a way,” she says, watching Ana’s brow furrow slightly.

“I know you’ll still love me when the baby comes,” Ana tells her, reaching out to press her palm against the curve of Margaret’s stomach. “You still loved me after all the others.”

“Of course I did.” Margaret smiles when Ana looks back up to her. “You’re my beautiful Ana María. I could never stop loving you.”

Ana is confused still, and it shows in her eyes, but her face crinkles into a smile to match her mother’s and she giggles, childishly. Margaret is glad; she’s always loved Ana’s laugh. “Love you, too, Maman,” Ana promises, patting once at Margaret’s stomach and then again at Margaret’s cheek, a mimicry of the hand Margaret still has pressed against her own.

“Good,” Margaret says, squeezing lightly at the back of Ana’s neck before dropping both her hands. “Now go on, get back to the others. I’m sure they’ll be missing you by now.”

“Yes, Maman.” Ana smiles again, wide and bright, and curtseys neatly before she turns to run out of the room. Margaret watches her with a soft, sad smile on her own lips, one hand rising to rub over her swollen stomach.

It is a good, warm memory of her eldest child to carry into her labour, she thinks. The baby will be coming soon, she has no doubt of that, and though she prays she’ll live through this birth, too, as she’s lived through seven others, she knows that her body is tired. There is a chance she won’t see her beautiful Ana María again.

\---

Ana’s tenth birthday is overshadowed by the birth of her fourth little brother and then, no more than a half hour later, the death of her mother. She is dressed in a pretty black dress and taken to the nursery, where her siblings are waiting for her, all dressed in similar dark outfits. Margaret Frances, the youngest until now at only a year and a half, toddles over to her and catches her hand, her other thumb lodged securely in her mouth.

Normally, Ana would scold her for the unseemly behaviour. Today, though, with the maids watching them with sad eyes as they whisper to each other in the corners of the room, she lets Margaret keep her childish comfort.

They are kept in the nursery until midday has come and gone. A servant with a grave face that Ana only vaguely recognises as one of her father’s personal men brings them a tray of cold meats and bread and cheese for their lunch, but other than that nobody comes into or goes from the room.

Maria Anna stomps her feet and demands that someone bring them cake for Ana’s birthday until Ana shushes her, curling her free arm around Maria Anna’s shoulders. Maria Anna turns to Ana, eyes bright with tears that are only partly angry, and says, voice shaking, “Where’s Maman?”

Their mother was always the first to greet them on birthdays, gathering the birthday child up in her arms and peppering kisses and smiles on the others, her kind eyes lit up with love for her children. None of them have seen her all morning, and it’s thrown them all off-balance. Ana can see the fear in all their faces.  

“Ana?” Margaret tugs on Ana’s hand. “Ana, Maman?”

Ana looks down to Margaret, and then up and across at her other siblings, huddled close around her, and tries to muster up a smile. “Maman is busy, don’t you know?” She drops elegantly down to her knees, smoothing her black skirts out over her thighs, and gestures for them all to join her. When they’re settled, she picks Margaret’s hand back up. “She is bringing us another little brother or sister. And Papa is with her, I’m sure, and old Madame Roux, too. They have no time for cake, or birthday hugs and kisses. Having a child is a hard job.”

Philip wrinkles his nose. “Like lessons?”

“Harder than lessons,” Ana tells him, and his and Maria Anna’s mouths drop open into gapes. Ana smiles again, reaching over to ruffle Philip’s hair, huffing slightly when he twists away from her hand and puffs his chest up. He is only six, but as the oldest boy in the group he’s growing up fast. Ana can almost remember when he was a toddler following her around wherever she went, hands tangled in her skirts.

“But who will give you your birthday hug, then?” Charles pipes up, his brow still knitted. Ana laughs quietly, dropping her hand from Philip’s head to his cheek. Charles is still young enough to let her keep it there as he watches her with wide, worried eyes.

“I suppose you’ll all have to,” she tells him, sitting back and smiling as his face brightens with a smile and he tackles into her, arms wrapping around her neck. The others all follow quickly, until they’re a pile of tangled limbs and laughter in the middle of the room. Ferdinand’s nails dig into her arm and Maria Anna’s chin is bony against her shoulder, but Ana cannot bring herself to chide them for the mess they’re making of themselves. It’s the most normal she’s felt all day.

And then, when Ana is starting to think that everything will be okay, the nursery doors are opened and her father walks in, his face pale and a bundle of blue and gold cloth in his arm.

He clears his throat and they all untangle themselves to climb to their feet. Ana brushes her skirt clean and takes hold of Margaret Frances’ hand in one hand and Philip’s in the other.

“Children,” her father says, and then coughs as his voice cracks slightly. “Children, I’d like you to meet Alphonse Maurice, your new little brother.”

Maria Anna squeals excitedly, bouncing on her heels and clapping her hands together. Margaret Frances and Ferdinand bounce too, and giggle, unsure of what is going on but happy to follow their sister’s lead. Charles is beaming. Philip’s grip on Ana’s hand tightens, but when Ana glances over all she can see in her brother’s face is joy.

Only Ana notices the tiredness in her father’s eyes, and the way his smile is pulled a little too tight. He meets her eyes and his whole expression drops into sorrow.

Ana swallows. “And Maman?” she asks, barely more than a whisper.

Her father’s shoulders rise and then drop as though he is forcing them to relax. He looks down at the baby in his arms and now his smile is all sadness. “I’m afraid she—” His voice breaks again. Ana can see that his eyes are wet. “Your Maman didn’t make it.”

The others are too young to understand what her father means, but they are silent anyway, looking fearfully between Ana and their father.

Ana, though — Ana knows. There will be no more trips to the cathedrals and monasteries with her Maman, no more early morning walks around the palace grounds — no more Maman, at all, ever again. It is a terrifying, dizzying thought. For a long moment Ana isn’t sure she can remember how to breathe, but then Philip’s hand squeezes hers again, and she drags in a shuddery breath. Her father strides across the room and pulls her close, the hand that isn’t holding the new baby heavy and comforting on the back of her neck, and she presses her face into his stomach and gasps quietly through her sobs.

“It will be okay, Ana,” her father says, his voice rumbling through her whole body. “We’ll be okay, my precious girl, my Ana.”

She pulls back slightly, her cheeks wet with tears, and looks up at her father, the only parent she has left.

“She told me she loved me,” she says, feeling like she is six and just waking from a night terror again. “I didn’t know she was going to leave me, I didn’t know, Papa, I didn’t know.”

Her father’s hand slides forward to cup her jaw gently, his thumb wiping her cheek dry. “No one did, my angel, not even me.”

“Maman did,” she whispers, and her father smiles weakly.

“Your Maman always was much quicker than the rest of us, wasn’t she?”

\---

A little over ten months after Alphonse is born, he stretches his arms out to Ana and says, very distinctly, “Mama.”

She’s in the middle of trying to corral Charles, Ferdinand and Margaret Frances to their rooms to get them dressed for dinner when Alphonse speaks up, and her siblings take the chance to escape her nagging when she freezes at the word.

Alphonse beams up at her when she stops by the side of his crib, his arms still reaching out, hands grasping at thin air. He has been burbling nonsense syllables for months now, chattering to himself and to her and to anyone who will hold him, really, but this is different. There’s intent behind the word that hasn’t been there before.

As if to prove her right, Alphonse blinks, and then repeats himself. “Mama,” he says, watching Ana. “Mama, ma—” and then he descends back into his nonsense babbling.

Ana feels the familiar heat of tears building up and closes her eyes tightly. She shouldn’t be the one that Alphonse directs his first words to, let alone the one that he calls Mama. Bad enough that Philip calls her Mother, sometimes, to tease her; bad enough that Ferdinand and Margaret Frances call her Maman when they are half asleep. Bad enough that her father watches her with a sad smile, still.

The younger ones won’t remember their mother at all, Ana knows, outside of the elegant portrait hanging in the main hall or the smaller, sweeter one in the nursery.

She is only ten herself. Some of her memories are fuzzy, not quite there. Eventually she might not remember what her mother sounded like, or the smell of the perfumes she always wore, or the way her laugh danced in her eyes.

Alphonse won’t have anything. If he met their mother at all, it can only have been for a handful of moments.

It makes Ana’s chest ache like her heart wants to break through her ribs and fly away. Alphonse has her mother’s blue, blue eyes, and they are still staring owlishly at her when she opens her own again. “Oh, my angel,” she breathes, lifting him out of the cot. He tucks his head into the curve of her neck as soon as he’s in her arms. Her heart breaks a little more. “Precious boy. Your Maman loved you very much, and so do I.”

He stops breathing a month and a half later.

\---

They’re all in the middle of a game of chase, shrieking louder than is usually considered proper as they dash through the Alcázar, when their father calls for Ana.

The game slows to a halt as Ana stop running, turning to look down the stairs at her father. He’s been shut away in his office for days now, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to ask to join in, or tell her about some trip they’ll all be going on in the next few days.

His smile, however, is not the one that means he has good news for his children. It’s the smile he gives his advisors when they’ve come up with a solution to a problem that isn’t quite what he wants to do.

“Ana, angel,” he says again, holding out a hand. “A moment, please?”

It has been a little under nine months since Alphonse died. Today is the first time she’s not had some kind of lesson in five weeks. The break has been a welcome one — it’s a relief to be a child again, to run through the halls and yell with her brothers and sisters — but now, she senses, it’s coming to an end. She must slip back into sensible Ana, who is far more mature than she should be at eleven years old.

The summer heat suddenly feels heavier around her.

“Of course, Papa.” She brushes her skirts down and tucks the strands of hair that have fallen out of her bun behind her ears, and then descends carefully to take her father’s waiting hand.

Her father’s smile turns sad for a moment — it often does when he’s looking at her — and he squeezes her hand gently. “Oh, Ana. What will I do without you?”

She doesn’t get a chance to question what he means before he’s turning back to her siblings. “I believe Madame Fournier said something about baking sugar biscuits earlier.” His eyes warm when they all squeal in unison. “Don’t spoil your appetites!” he calls, as they start off for the kitchens.

Ana watches them scurry away, and then looks back to her father. “Come,” he says, quietly. His face is soft and sad again. “I have news for you.”

An hour later, she is betrothed.

Her husband-to-be is going to be the King of France, one of the most powerful men in the entire world, her father tells her. He is five days younger than her. She’ll live in Paris, which, her father assures her, is the kind of city the stories her mother used to tell her took place in. Her father will send some of his most beautiful jewels with her, and enough crowns that she could wear a different one each day for the rest of her life, and her own army of maids and servants.

It will be wonderful, her father says.

Ana smiles and curtseys and doesn’t let herself cry until she is alone in her own room again.

\---

After Philip is told that he, too, will be marrying soon — Ana’s future husband’s little sister; “You will be brother and sister twice over,” their father tells them — a few months later, the two of them curl up together in Ana’s bed. Philip’s eyes are wide and unguarded when he looks up at Ana. It has been a long time since she last saw him look his age.

“I don’t want to get married,” he says, in a low, frightened whisper.

Ana presses her hand to his cheek. He doesn’t pull away, which comforts her and worries her in equal measure. All she can find to say is, “I know.”

“I don’t want you to get married, either.” Philip is eight years old. He hadn’t even understood what marriage meant when their father told him the news. Even now, all he knows is that Ana will have to move away to live with her new husband, to start a new family, and that his wife will come to replace her, so he can start another new family of his own. “Why can’t we just stay here, together?”

Ana’s heart is aching again.

“We can’t,” she says, stroking his hair away from his forehead and smiling sadly. “Papa has promised the King of France that we won’t.”

“But I want to,” Philip replies, his lower lip wavering dangerously. Ana catches sight of tears in the corners of his eyes, but he ducks forward to bury his head in the curve of her shoulder before she can see them fall. “It’s not fair,” he murmurs into her dress. Ana curls her fingers into his hair and bites down on her lip to keep from crying with him.

“I know,” she says, again. It didn’t seem fair when their father told her about her marriage, and it doesn’t seem fair now, with Philip tucked against her, breathing unsteady and face damp with tears. He’s just a child — they both are — but their lives are evolving rapidly around them. Ana’s lessons are on court politics and French etiquette, and soon Philip’s will be, too. She’s learning about French fashion and the history of the French aristocracy and how, exactly, a queen runs a household, when all she wants is to be running through the gardens of the Alcázar, enjoying the last few weeks of sunshine.

Her father rarely smiles at her, now. When she looks in the mirror, she sees more and more of her mother — and now, as her dresses get more elegant, more adult, the similarities are becoming startling.

She’s old enough, and perceptive enough, to know that one is the result of the other.

When Philip’s hands come up to clench in her dress, over her stomach, Ana thinks maybe her father isn’t the only one who’s noticed how closely she resembles her mother. It feels like something is wrapped around her throat; Philip is the oldest of her siblings, but sometimes she catches even him watching her like they used to watch their mother.

It makes her sadder than she knew she could be. Her family hasn’t been the same since their mother died. How will they cope with losing her, too, now that she is more mother than sister to them all?

\---

French doesn’t come naturally to Ana, to the eternal frustration of the high-born French lady her father hires to teach it to her, thinking it will make her more amenable to the language. The lady, Louise, spits Spanish out when she has to revert to it, as though the words leave a nasty taste in her mouth. Ana starts doing the same when she speaks French, just to spite her. Sometimes, when Ana is feeling particularly ungracious and Louise has been sleeping particularly badly, they spend hours throwing simple nouns back and forth, pulling increasingly ridiculous faces as they do. Ana’s father always sighs sadly when he catches them at it, but it makes Ana giggle and Louise smile wickedly. They’re the only times she ever feels like she could like Louise, if she weren’t so French.

Louise calls her Anne, instead of Ana, or even Ana María, which is what her father’s courtiers call her, or the servants when she is in trouble. Anne is a proper French name, more fitting for the future queen of France, according to Louise.

Ana thinks it sounds too short without the second _–ah_ sound, like a snap rather than a name.

She complains about it to her father one night, sitting placidly by his feet in his office as he goes through important papers and she struggles through a book of French children’s rhymes. He pauses in his signing to peer down at her.

“Louise is right,” he says, head tilted slightly as though the thought is only just occurring to him and he needs to give it its due consideration. It’s a habit that Ana has already picked up. She catches sight of herself in the ornate palace mirrors sometimes with her head quirked to the same angle as she studies a drawing from one of her siblings or listens to one of the courtiers’ daughters she’s adopted as friends.

Now, though, she is pouting like Maria Anna does when she doesn’t get her way. “I don’t like it.”

Her father sighs and puts his quill down. He turns in his chair so that he is facing her fully. “Ana.” It is more of an exhale than a word; the only thing solidifying it is that final _–ah_. Ana hates to think what her name might fade to without it. Will fade to, once she is in France, once she is French. He reaches down to catch her hands, fingers curling around her wrists, palms warm against the backs of her hands. “Darling, please.”

She knows what he means – he said the same thing to Philip, in the same tone, when Philip looked between them with wide, watery eyes and told them he didn’t want to get married. _Please_ means she’s got to do it, no matter how little wants to.

 _Please_ means she’ll be Anne soon, not Ana María, not even Ana, just Anne. A short, sharp drop into silence – but perfectly, properly French.

“Anne,” she says, quietly, focusing on her hands in her father’s, and then again, “Anne.” It takes a lot of effort to keep from spitting it out like she does all her other French words, but she manages. The space after it still sounds too empty. When she looks up at her father, though, he’s smiling.

His thumbs trace lightly over the insides of her wrists, once, twice. “Anne,” he repeats. “Not so awful, see?” Ana doesn’t agree, not quite, but it sounds sweeter in his voice than it does in Louise’s, closer to her own name, so she smiles, too. Her father lifts her hands and presses a kiss to her knuckles where they’re folded around the edges of the French book. “And you will always be my angel, no matter what you’re called,” he tells her. “My angel Ana.” He kisses her knuckles again, his eyes dancing. “My angel Anne.”

The next morning the servants start calling her Anne. It stings a little for the first few days, but eventually she stops noticing the gap after the first syllable. It helps that her family follows suit; her siblings don’t understand why, but they get used to it even faster than she had.

Only her little gaggle of courtiers’ daughters stick with calling her Ana. It almost feels like Ana is a nickname, something the girls have chosen to call her rather than the name she was born with, which is right, she supposes. It isn’t her name, not really, not anymore.

She is Anne, now; the future queen of France, with a name finally fitting the position.

\---

“Will you forget us when you go?” Margaret Frances asks from where she is curled up in Anne’s lap. Margaret is five years old; Anne will be leaving for France in just a handful of months. It feels like barely as much time since she was informed of her betrothal, but it’s been years.

Anne doesn’t know where they’ve gone. She supposes they must slipped past in the moments when she wasn’t paying attention – all the lessons she daydreamed her way through, all the afternoons she whiled away playing with her siblings. There’s more urgency in those afternoons now that she only has so many left.

She runs her fingers through Margaret’s hair, picking out the stray petals still lingering there from their walk around the gardens earlier. “Of course not,” she says. It doesn’t seem like enough, and the way Margaret stays still and quiet in her lap tells her that she feels the same, but Anne doesn’t know what else to say. There are too many words and not enough at the same time.

Thankfully, Isabel, the closest of Anne’s friends, pokes Margaret lightly in the stomach and adds, “As if anyone could ever forget your pretty face,” so Anne doesn’t have to. Isabel is Anne’s favourite – she’s clever enough to hide how clever she is, which Anne thinks is a valuable skill, but more importantly she is the kindest of the courtiers’ daughters, and has a ready smile that she is unashamed of – and Anne desperately, selfishly hopes that she’ll be one of the ladies sent to Paris with her. Of all the girls she thinks Isabel would be best at helping her survive the French courts.

If she asks, her father will probably agree to send Isabel. But that seems awfully cruel without asking Isabel’s permission first, and Anne doesn’t know how to ask for something so big.

Margaret squirms away from Isabel’s fingers and turns to look up at Anne. Her cheeks are flushed from giggling and her eyes are wide. Anne forgets, sometimes, how young her siblings still are. How young she still is.

“It’s true,” Anne tells her, carding her fingers through Margaret’s hair. “None of the ladies in Paris could ever be more beautiful than you.”

Margaret watches Anne solemnly for a beat and then scrunches her face up as Anne presses a kiss to her forehead.

A little, frightened part of Anne wants to ask the same – _Will you forget me when I am gone?_ – but she bites down on it. She knows the answer; Maria Anna was the same age when their mother died that Margaret is now, and Maria Anna never even mentions their mother anymore. Sometimes Anne isn’t sure Anna Maria would know she ever had a mother if it weren’t for Anne and Philip’s stories.

Something heavy and aching twists in Anne’s guts whenever she thinks about Margaret forgetting about her. It makes her want to shut herself away in her room with all her siblings and refuse to come out ever again – refuse to go to Paris and get married and start a new life in another country, surrounded by strangers instead of her family.

She doesn’t ask. Margaret endures another few minutes of sitting quietly and then starts to wriggle in Anne’s lap, fingers tapping at Anne’s jaw to get her attention again. “Sing to me,” she says when Anne looks down.

Anne exhales slowly, running one hand down Margaret’s spine, trying to fix this moment in her mind for good, and then smiles. “Of course, angel,” she says.

She doesn’t want to ever forget the way Margaret’s face brightens into a grin, or the fond look Isabel exchanges with her over Margaret’s head, or the way the late summer sunshine lances into the room, lighting her and Margaret’s hair on fire the same way she remembers her mother’s hair glowing.

\---

Margaret Frances doesn’t smile the day Anne leaves for Burgos with Philip. Maria Anna holds her hand and bites down her tears, but Margaret is too young, still, to keep from crying. She doesn’t wail like she did when she finally understood that their mother wasn’t coming back, all those years ago – back then she screamed for hours at a time, until her voice went hoarse and her throat was scraped raw; their nursemaids took to slipping her rum before she went to sleep to quieten her down – but the collar of her dress is wet with tears when Anne crouches down by her and takes her cheeks in her hands.

“Be strong,” Anne tells her, and Margaret’s breathing hitches noisily. Her eyes and cheeks and nose are red and sticky, but Anne strokes her thumbs over her cheekbones regardless.

“Don’t go,” Margaret replies. She’s young enough that she means it, young enough that she doesn’t understand that Anne doesn’t have a choice.

Anne smiles softly to keep from crying herself and smooths Margaret’s hair away from her face. “I have to,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I have to go, angel, I have to.”

Margaret shakes her head stubbornly, hands clutching at Anne’s sleeves. “Don’t,” she repeats. Anne can feel her heart breaking, something warm and vital cracking in her chest. It’s not fair.

She pulls Margaret forward into a desperate hug, then catches hold of Maria Anna’s dress and drags her in, too. The boys are fast to follow, curling themselves into her sides and burying their faces in her neck.

It’s been so long since they all piled together like this, Anne in the middle, Margaret plastered to her front, Maria Anna’s arms around her neck, Charles and Ferdinand heavy against her side, Philip at her back, holding them all together. They smell like the palace – like the rosewater the nurses dab behind their ears each morning, like the fresh bread Charles and Maria Anna are so good at stealing, like winter evenings curled by the fireside in their father’s rooms, Anne and Philip telling fairy stories until the little ones are fast asleep.

They smell like home. Anne never wants to let them go.

But her father’s hand settles heavy on the back of her neck, and she knows she has to.

Extracting herself is a slow job made all the slower by her reluctance. They’ve tangled themselves together well – arms and dresses and jackets catch and have to be separated carefully – and at the end Margaret is still clinging to Anne’s stomach, her tears streaming into Anne’s neck.

“Angel,” Anne murmurs, stroking her hand over Margaret’s head. “Margaret, precious, you need to let me go.”

Margaret shakes her head and tightens her grip, shoulders heaving when Anne’s palm comes to rest on them. Her father reaches over her to cover her hand, and says, “Margaret,” in his quietest, softest voice.

Anne feels the rough breath that Margaret sucks in before she unwinds her arms and steps back. She catches hold of Margaret’s cheeks again, wiping at her tears gently, and repeats, “Be strong, angel. For me.”

Margaret nods shakily. Anne leans forward and presses a kiss hard against her hair, and then rises unsteadily to her feet. She touches a hand to Margaret’s cheek, and then Maria Anna’s, and then runs her hand through Charles and Ferdinand’s hair.

“I’ll miss you,” she tells them all, forcing her voice to remain clear and even. “All my angels. I’ll miss you—so much. So, so much.”

Her father’s hand rests on her neck again, squeezing lightly, and she smiles, running her fingers lightly down Ferdinand’s cheek, before turning and stepping to the carriage. She doesn’t watch as Philip says his goodbyes. It would be too painful, she thinks, and she’s too afraid that she’s right to risk looking.

When he’s done he reaches out and catches her hand. His smile is as lost as she feels. She holds onto him tightly as they climb into the carriage – alone, for now, with their father – and then, once they’re moving, the palace disappearing behind them, their siblings with it, he curls up against her side and they cry together, clinging desperately to each other. Their father curls his arm around the both of them, pulling carefully until they’re leaning against him, Anne sandwiched between all the home she has left.

It takes a long, long time for either of them to stop crying.

\---

Anne’s wedding dress is the most beautiful thing she’s ever worn. Miles of white lace threaded through with gold, fitted perfectly to her upper body and then splaying out at the hips to trail behind her. The Spanish girls she is bringing to Paris with her – Isabel, thankfully, among them – carry it between them to keep it from the floor.

She wears it twice. Once to her wedding, which her husband doesn’t attend, because he is in Bordeaux, where his sister is marrying Philip though Philip stands by Anne’s side through her service, and then again when she arrives on the Isle of Pheasants, which is both French and Spanish land, to meet her husband for the first time.

They wait in a gilded room for the French siblings. There is a strange tension in the room – part anticipation, part fear – that hangs, suffocating, around them. Anne’s beautiful dress feels too heavy, weighing her down, too precious, too important. Her Spanish girls are quieter than she’s ever heard them before. Even Isabel isn’t smiling.

Philip holds his chin high beside her, the lines of his shoulders calm and regal, but there’s a frightened edge in his eyes that Anne understands painfully well.

He is still a child. Her whole body aches for him, married at ten, watching his sister leave him as he’s thrown into a new life with a stranger.

She circles her fingers around his wrist and squeezes gently. They keep their eyes forward, on the grand doors in front of them that will open, soon, to reveal their husband and wife, their futures. “Be strong,” Anne breathes. She’s said it so many times since they left Madrid that the words have taken on a new meaning, as heavy and hopeful as a prayer.

Philip makes a soft sound that could be a stifled sob or a stifled laugh. Anne doesn’t dare turn to see which. He slips his wrist out of her grip and closes her hand in his. His palm is clammy and too hot, but Anne is glad of the contact, the way the heat grounds her.

“Be strong,” he agrees, his fingers tightening around her hand briefly before dropping away altogether as the doors open, and Louis and Elizabeth, husband, wife, step into the room.


End file.
